Filibuster Saves Face
by Caged Eternity
Summary: In which James and his best friend attempt a Sirius conversation, regarding the one and only Padfoot's, erm, DELICATE reputation.


_Disclaimer: Any and all references to Harry Potter-type stuff do not belong to me!_**  
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**FILIBUSTER SAVES FACE**

"Prongs?"

"Mmm?"

"Do I have an image?"

"…What?" Just dozing off in one of the comfortable armchairs closest to the blazing Gryffindor hearth, James Potter only very reluctantly jerked his mind back from its heavy stupor. He tore his eyes away from the fire to fix them upon the face of his best friend, who was presently regarding him with an oddly troubled expression – something unnerving in and of itself, considering the fact that his best friend was none other than the notoriously cheerful Sirius Black.

"You know, an image? A reputation to maintain?"

"Uhm…" James's face remained blank, unsure as to what his friend was getting at.

Sirius heaved a dramatic sigh. "We – I mean, you and me, Moony, Wormtail – we're the Marauders, yeah? So you're James Potter, the messy-haired Lily-loving star of the Quidditch team. Remus is the…the good one, the books one, the prefect, and our own secret undercover werewolf. Then there's Peter, our goofy little nutter that couldn't put his own socks on right-side-out if we weren't there to help him." Sirius paused, eyeing James curiously to see if he followed. "And then there's me."

"Sirius Black?" James offered, none too helpfully.

"Yeah, Sirius Black. But what about Sirius Black? Who is he, right? I mean, I was thinking…" And his voice dropped down confidentially, "I was thinking, you know, that maybe I'm just the tragically misunderstood one. No, no, don't look at me like that, Prongs, think about it for a second. Sirius Black: tall, charming, dashingly handsome – rejected by his family of ancient, shamefully evil Slytherin-idolizing wankers, all of whom are out to kill him – fawned over by the ladies, pitied by his teachers – and it's all just so noble, so heartrending, so _brave_…"

James ogled at his friend. Sirius apparently took no notice.

"Well, is that it, Prongs? D'you reckon that's my image?"

James took a moment to look around him. As far as he could see, there were no malevolent Slytherin relatives lurking in the shadows, waiting to jump out and hex Sirius into infinity; no girls were throwing themselves at Sirius's feet or hanging off his arm, catering to his every desire; and there was not a single teacher that came to mind whom James could ever remember regarding Sirius with anything even _remotely_ resembling pity. Frustration, maybe; amusement, maybe; anger, certainly…because Sirius Black was the trickster, that was who he was – the plotter of all plotters, the prankster of all pranksters, the most mischievous of the Marauders themselves.

James turned back to his companion. "Yep," he said blandly. "That's your image."

"I thought so," Sirius agreed, with a sober nod. "Always have, you know, just never really wanted to draw the attention to myself…Only problem is, now that word is out, I suppose I can't – I mean, it would just tarnish the reputation – oh, but – but I just –"

"…alright?"

"Ah, damnit, I may as well," Sirius at last gave in. He reached into the bag on the ground beside his chair, and after a moment of rummaging around, produced an item that James instantly could not help but admire.

"Dungbombs strapped to one of Filibuster's. Absolutely genius, Padfoot."

"Yeah, I thought so, too." And, after a moment's reverent hesitation, Sirius prodded the firework with his wand. A swift chuck sent it sputtering into a knot of third- and fourth-year students clustered over by the portrait hole; and then Sirius wiped his hands on his robes, slid his wand into a pocket, and reached for his Potions textbook.

"I've still got those thirty pages to read for tomorrow, bloody Slughorn," he grumbled, as he flipped through to the correct chapter.

James was contemplating his friend with interest. "What happened to maintaining the image?" he asked, curious.

"Oh, that. I dunno. It's all well and good, I suppose, except then they start expecting too much from you – I mean, life as a wretchedly abandoned yet publicly adored figure, it's quite a burden to bear, you know…And a little fun never hurt anyone, did it, Prongs?"

"Nope, never," James agreed wholeheartedly. He cracked open his own Potions book, snuck a glance at Sirius only to find him doodling obscene stick figures across his page, and laughed. Somehow, James thought Padfoot was upholding his image quite well.


End file.
